Inside the library, space unfolded in a way both majestic and disorienting. The structure was vast beyond reckoning, and the more Andrew looked, the more it seemed to stretch. Fifty levels spiraled upward, yet none were closed off like conventional floors; instead, they jutted out as immense terraces suspended in air, exposed to view from the very ground below. It gave the impression of an open chasm turned inside out, as though the library was less a building and more a hollow mountain filled with shelves. From the threshold, one could raise their eyes and see straight into the dome's immense heart, its curving expanse the only ceiling above, arching so high it seemed more like the sky itself. Shelves and balconies of knowledge climbed tier upon tier, unbroken, stacked so relentlessly that they resembled a cosmic staircase, the enormity of the collection spread out like an unending firmament of books.
But the grandeur was smothered by decay. The light was faint, scattered into weakness. A dim atmosphere lingered, not only heavy with dust but also with the kind of neglect that accumulates over generations. Shadows pooled thickly in corners, stretching long and uneven across the terraces, swallowing entire aisles in darkness. The countless fixtures lining the walls and railings were either shattered, burnt out, or flickering in erratic bursts that failed to hold against the gloom. Their cold glimmers did not illuminate so much as they revealed how broken things were. Only the dome's roof granted light, allowing thin beams to filter in, pale and weary. Even that distant glow barely reached into the cavernous depths, leaving most of the structure drowning in half-light. The effect was suffocating–grandeur turned mausoleum.
Isabella walked ahead with deliberate calm, her figure drifting in and out of shadow. Andrew trailed a couple of paces behind, uneasy. They passed towering shelves that loomed over them like solemn guardians, each one a wall of forgotten tomes, their spines lined in dust so thick they might have been carved from stone. Silence hung oppressive, broken only by the faint scuff of footsteps. The sound did not echo properly here; it seemed to fall flat against the weight of so many books, absorbed by their silent presence, leaving the impression that even sound was unwelcome.
Eventually, Isabella halted before a massive shelf swallowed by deeper shadow, its bulk pressed so far back that it seemed to melt into the dark. She stopped and stood still, as though regarding something unseen.
Andrew squinted, his vision struggling against the dim. The gloom reduced Isabella to little more than a silhouette, a vague cut-out against the smothering black. She lingered, motionless for what felt like a long while, before shifting slightly, her shadow breaking into movement.
"Take," she said, extending something forward.
Andrew narrowed his eyes, but it remained indistinct in the murk. Guessing, he assumed it was a book.
"Oh, I forgot–you can't see in the dark." She sighed, a soft sound that seemed to drift oddly in the silence.
And you can? Andrew almost retorted, but then, without warning, the world tilted. His vision sharpened unnaturally, as though some invisible curtain had been torn aside. The darkness dissolved; every dim edge clarified.
Suddenly, the library was unbearably clear. The shadows remained, yet they no longer hid anything. Every detail cut with unnatural precision: the faint motes of dust spiraling down from the book in Isabella's hand, each particle distinct; the uneven texture of the shelf's ancient wood; the smooth paleness of Isabella's skin. It wasn't merely brighter–it was beyond natural sight, like a world sketched too finely, sharper than the human eye was meant to bear.
"A little enhancement." Isabella gave a small wink, the gesture almost playful but more unsettling in the stark clarity of his perception. Andrew realized then that he had never once witnessed her employ this ability directly. This was his first time truly seeing "Enhancement" for himself, and the experience left him rattled.
So it can be used on others too? Why didn't I ever think of that? His mind drifted. To be fair, I haven't had the chance to think at all. Six days. Only six, and everything already feels like too much. I'm overwhelmed. Hollow. Like my thoughts and feelings are there and not there–faint echoes of themselves. It's like I've been hollowed out. Just empty. It's damning. Suddenly... I think I want the voices back. The real world... It's just too insane for me.
Isabella's voice cut through his haze.
"Read the title." She handed him the book and turned toward a staircase that curled upward, spiraling like a coiled serpent into the heights.
Andrew glanced at the cover, his sharpened sight leaving nothing hidden, then followed after her.
"Biography of Morgur, The Sovereign? What about it?" He quickened his pace to close the distance as the steps carried them higher.
"You know of Morgur, the Conqueror of the Third World, the Undying Fiend, Merciless Monarch, Eccentric Visionary, the Blessed of the Heavens. He bore countless names, but Morgur remained. In Old Suv'rian, it translates as 'Silhouette of the Wronged.' The name wasn't about who he was, but an anchor for what he achieved. You know this much, yes?" Isabella's steps echoed softly, her voice calm yet weighty.
"Of course. Basic history–any literate person would. But what about Morgur brings you all the way to Fragr? Aren't you here to deal with a Chosen? Well–you, not we." His voice lowered, skepticism edging in. "Fragr looks ruined, sure, but strangely calm. Too calm. If this Chosen is that dangerous, are you sure he's still here? Honestly, it doesn't add up."
Now at her side, he kept the book close, the two of them passing one terrace after another as they climbed deeper into the labyrinthine space. Isabella said nothing at first, her silence as deliberate as her steps.
"There's much about the Sovereign tied to this," she said at last. "We'll start with the immediate matter. The rest can wait."
"And what matter is that, Miss Isabella?"
"Isabella," she corrected flatly.
"Huh?"
"Just Isabella. Formalities aren't needed." She stepped off the staircase into another level. It was nearly indistinguishable from the rest; shelves stretching without end, chandeliers dangling above like dead ornaments, their glass dull with grime. Only a few emitted faint, uneven flickers, like dying stars clinging to existence.
"Do you know what kind of Chosen we face? His ability, his personality? Of course you don't. He's a nobody. But yes, he is male." She leaned against the balustrade, gazing down into the abyss of bookshelves below, as if the library itself could answer her.
Andrew set the biography on the railing beside him, crossing his arms with a faint scowl. "So? Of what importance is it?" He turned slightly, eyes catching hers.
"His philosophy," Isabella said. "That's the connection. He calls himself 'Morgur the Second.' Beyond that, little is known."
"Is he truly a threat? Compared to the others wreaking havoc, he seems… quiet. Fragr doesn't look half as ruined as it should if someone like that were dangerous. Shouldn't you focus on the bigger threats? I don't mean to downplay him, but he doesn't feel like your top priority. Either I don't understand the real danger, or you're keeping something back. And speaking of danger–what even are his abilities?" Andrew's words spilled quickly, unfiltered. It was strange; he rarely let himself speak this freely, as though something inside had loosened. It didn't feel like me at all.
"Abilities?" Isabella mused aloud, her voice turning inward as she drifted from the railing, trailing her fingers along the dusty spines of forgotten books. "Let's begin with who he is."
Andrew sighed but followed, the weight of the book in his hand suddenly heavier.
"His name is Alex Warren. Neurosurgeon, residency at the University of Devhi; the one bordering Reton and Fragr. A prestigious school… wasted on him. His childhood? Nothing. Parents? Nothing. Guardians? Nothing. As if he appeared midlife. But no–someone erased him. Files, Net records, state archives–gone. Only fragments remain. People remember his name, nothing more. Even his face is lost to memory."
Andrew halted, the words colliding with his unease. Isabella turned, her eyes narrowing faintly at his pause.
"It's been six days," he muttered. "Six days, Isabella. And it feels like the world itself is unraveling. One enigma after another. I'm lost. This… all of this… feels like a dream."
"If only it were." Her voice was steady, but Andrew caught something beneath it; an emotion so carefully buried it barely slipped through. "But it isn't. Let's stay focused." She resumed walking, unhurried but unwavering.
"As for abilities–uncertain. Deductions only. With Jane's Clairvoyance, we suspect two: Self-Causality Manipulation and Shapeshifting. Maybe both. Perhaps like yours–Visionary tethered with Self-Causality. Whatever it is, something is disturbing the Flow. It churns violently."
"Huh? What the hell are we even talking about?" Andrew felt his confusion knot tighter. He both understood… and didn't.
Then–sound. A terrible sound. At first faint, like a tremor through the bones of the library itself, then swelling into a tide of uproar. It rolled through the dome: marching, countless synchronized steps, heavy and relentless. It came from everywhere at once, hammering the air, making the shelves quiver in their frames. The sound reverberated through the vast hollow, filling it with a rhythm so strict it seemed mechanical.
A force monotonous, unnatural, seeped into the marrow of the place. It was static, eerie, wrong.
Andrew froze, every nerve seared by the noise. His ears rang, his chest tightened, his thoughts scattered. It clawed at him, louder, heavier, more suffocating.
Isabella's gaze flicked toward the disturbance, her expression tightening.
"Thralls," she muttered.
"Huh?!"
The single syllable captured his state of mind. Genuinely… what the fuck was wrong with the world?